


Scratching the Itch

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't have the patience for paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratching the Itch

It’s like an itch beneath his skin; he wants to shift in his seat, lean forward, lean back. It’s ridiculous, intolerable. He has better self-control than this, but giving statements is always so _tedious_. He doesn’t know why today it should be worse and it’s infuriating, which adds to the itch. It hasn’t been particularly long since he and John indulged, nor has it been very recent. Nevertheless he needs it now with an insistence that’s hard to deny. Anywhere else, for anything else, he would have left by now, swept out in a dramatic swirl of coat and scarf and when John caught up to him… 

But he had promised to be on his best behaviour, which admittedly didn’t usually count for much, but he had promised _John_ and so he would do it, however much it irked him. Sherlock’s fingers played with the edge of the paper in front of him, resisting the urge to shred it into so much confetti. It was worse than cocaine withdrawal had been, at least then he had been able to tell himself it would pass, been able to recite statistics about health consequences and recovery schedules. There were no consequences to this though, at least not ones they didn’t want, John was far too careful for that. Sherlock couldn’t see it passing either, like a phase, he didn’t want it to. His fingers gave an odd spasmodic twitch. He was going to break his promise to John, he didn’t want to, but he really couldn’t take this _tedious, droning **imbecile**_ any longer.

Warm, callused fingers came to rest over his wrist and it was like the opposite of being startled; his whole body suddenly became both attuned and relaxed at once. A neat fingernail bit into the tender underside of his wrist, the pale flesh whitening further then reddening as it dug in. He felt it when the skin parted, not a lot, but just enough. He didn’t need to look, but he could imagine it in vivid detail; he’d made an extensive study. There would be tiny beads of blood welling along the crescent cut, not even enough to spill; it would bruise later, but not just yet.

Sherlock glanced sideways but John wasn’t even looking; he didn’t need to. Sherlock could feel his attention like the sun on his skin; he shifted his wrist slightly, feeling the scratch open just a little deeper, a little wider, as much as John would allow. Then John withdrew his hand; the pads of his fingers brushing over the cut and making it sting with the salt of his skin. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth lift in a bare hint of a smile, enough that only John would be able to tell, and he settled back in his chair once more, relaxed. John wouldn’t let him break his promise.

FIN


End file.
